Toledo Streets Issue 26

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ISSUE #26

BECAUSE 1MATTERS | Farming in the cityPOETRY | Living Faith | SARDONIC SALAD Sudoku | HOBOSCOPES

ALSO:

ONTARIO STREET | ST V’S IN HANDCUFFS | LOVE THE GAME, CAN’T WATCH NINE INNINGS

OUR PLACE IN BASEBALL HISTORY

TOLEDO’S

THE BABE, A BALL, & A BOY: A FA M I LY ’ S L E G A C Y

B E F O R E J A C K I E , T H E R E WAS FLEET W A L K E R

T H E F I R S T A L L - S TA R B E N E F I T G A M E

HOW THE HENS GIVE BACK TO T H E I R H O M E

Toledo Streets - The Paper with a MissionPage 2 Issue #26

Passing torchesHow the dream keeps going

Amanda F. Moore,Managing Editor

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W hen Toledo Streets started, there were a lot of hopes and plans. Not all of them have

happened. Some have changed in the face of reality; some let go as unfeasible, and others have taken their place. The work of the paper goes on and the essential dream stays the same. What changes are the ways we do it, and sometimes who’s involved. Including me. I’ve met a lot of people through doing the program, most of them wonderful. Volunteers. Contributors. Supporters. People with a similar passion. I owe so much to 1Matters, which has supported the paper so generously since the beginning. The ones most dear to me are the many vendors, especially those who have hung around. Billy Jim. Bonfiles. Clean. Linda. Geoffrey. Lawrence. Mo… When you create something, then put it out in the world, you get a lot back. Sometimes it’s criticism. Now and then disappointment or discouragement.

But overwhelmingly, the paper has received support and encouragement. Also when you create something, you have to be ready to let it go if you want it to live outside yourself. Sometimes you find yourself needing to walk away from it, whether you want to or not. The dream needs to be passed to other torch bearers. This is my last issue as Managing Editor. In late May, I am getting married and moving away from this amazing little city with a huge heart. I will miss Toledo, my true hometown, and all of its wonderful people who changed my life. I will miss the paper, which has only been possible because of so many giving, dedicated people. I will miss all who dreamed, planned and prayed with me. I will miss the vendors who, more than any others, inspire me both in the work of the paper and in my personal life. I will stay on in some ways; serving on Toledo Streets’ board of directors as we become our own nonprofit, as well as continuing with

laying out the paper. What has done my heart so much good is knowing we’re bringing on someone who can do amazing things for the paper and program, someone who can lead Toledo Streets to the next level. There is great relief in knowing and trusting the person to whom I’m passing the torch. That dream-sharer is a guy by the name of Jamie Rye. Jamie has a lot he is bringing to the team, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to turn over the leadership to him. I know, Toledo, that you will be as supportive of Jamie and Toledo Streets as you were of me… because that’s just what kind of community you are. And I love you for it! You believe, as do I, that...

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SMALL CHANGE.

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Toledo Streets - The Paper with a MissionIssue #26 Page 3

Because 1Matters1 really does matter

Ken Leslie

The person most influential in making 1Matters what it is today is leaving shortly to pursue well deserved

happiness. Amanda Moore is getting married and moving from Toledo. My level of happiness for her equals my level of love and feelings of loss. With her move we-1Matters, the people on the streets, the volunteers we serve with, and me personally-are losing a close, best friend. I am losing a right hand, a ying, a partner. Yah, I know: “You are not losing a blah, blah, blah.” But for me personally, as a leader, a man, and friend, she has been one of the most powerful influences in my life as a servant of God, as well as the direction of 1Matters. I first met Amanda in August of 2007. Amy Newman Mentel, one of our Tent City leaders, called and told me she met a girl on Yahoo groups that wanted to volunteer with Tent City. Anyone who knows Amanda knows that meeting her is meeting a very powerful woman of compassion AND a hilariously impish girl. When caught at anything, her head-down, corner-of-the-eye look and sheepish grin causes you to do nothing but forgive and laugh. She was the person who told me about and took me to this new group led by Don Schiewer, called Food For Thought, which we immediately embraced. She was the one who had a vision for what the pieces of 1Matters should look like, and then made it happen. She is 100% responsible for why Tent City’s flyers, websites, and communications look so good, and she wrote at least half of the content, (and lately, as we got busier with Veterans Matter, most of the content on all of our Facebook pages and websites). She was the one who said “I want to do more!” She found this street paper idea and came and said, “Let’s do this.” Then at her command, it was. Toledo Streets was born completely from her vision, and her strength. By the way, all of the above was done outside of her 40 hour a week day job at Sunrise Windows. Last year we finally secured the funding to bring her on full time to expand our Project Connect and expand Toledo Streets. Sadly, I became management and she became an employee which altered our relationship from just friends. It was amazing to see her grow so much as an employee.

We house 1Matters in my EdocTalent corporate office (my day job) and it was a blast having her in the office. The other Edoc employees love her as well. Candice and Amanda made a regular thing, and a rather big deal, about going to the restroom together. So Amanda called it “1Bladders”and even made a logo for her little group, a bladder with the yellow 1 in it. Then, she met the man of her dreams. True love! She was giddy. And she changed from a woman in significant pain and doubt, to a woman in joy, in love. That is so cool, so joyous to see and feel with her. It is written everywhere for those who give there is just reward. I have to believe this is the only reason I got such a wonderful wife, Norma. Amanda Faith Moore served and gave so much. James-Eric Zuehlke is her rich and just reward. Though this is a very significant loss to 1Matters, a significant hole to be filled which will require several people, I can be nothing but overjoyed for and with her. That is OVER joyed, way over. She has worked so hard, for so many, for so long. I am certain she will continue this service wherever she goes. Toledo Streets will go on because she has formed such a solid foundation. We have hired two employees (see what I mean?) to help move TS forward with the aim to spin it off as its own self-supporting 501c3. Fortunately she will continue helping us remotely with Toledo Streets and 1Matters in any way she can. Though I dread the loss to the organization, office, and 1Bladders, I am truly and completely thrilled to lose her as an employee in exchange to get my good and dear friend back. Winning. Words cannot express my gratitude for her influence on me personally, and the movement. Her tag line is “There is no such thing as small change.” Not in Amanda Faith Zuehlke’s world… it is ALL great change. Amanda, thank you for all you have done, because you have shown me time and again, 1 really does matter.

Your loving friend, Ken

Having founded Tent City over 20 years ago with partners like Cherry Street, Ken Leslie is continuing the vision for sustainable solutions to end homelessness for individuals. Email him at [email protected]. ts

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There is a garden springing up at 2476 Collingwood Boulevard... A garden being tilled, a garden

getting planted and cultivated. It is a garden on the abandoned site of the old State Theatre. The Toledo Occupy Garden lies at the cultural intersection of the Old West End and the Scott High School communities. It is across from the Collingwood Arts Center, across from the Black Kite coffeehouse, and a stone’s throw from the spectacular Rosary Cathedral. But there is only one person I think of when I think of this garden... In memory of Dawn Rene Baches, murdered (in body) at the State Theatre on February 22, 1981...

The sidewalk where her “disco top” was foundHer twelve year old’s blood still cries from the groundBut she has been heaven-loved, warm and newSince that night in the theatre’s ruins

They could murder her twelve year old bodyBut little girl lives with heavenly familyAnd waits with a loving , “Welcome home, Mom”For the mother who lost her decades ago...

William James O’Fahey can be reached on Facebook as Amish Country Doctors, or at toledoshipyardmonster.com, amishcountrydoctors.com and toledomichigan.com.

Farming in the city:Occupying a garden—and a memory

William James O’Fahey

Planning out the Toledo Occupy Garden.Photo: Elliot Charney


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JUANITA GARCIA,SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT

Letter to the editor

A family down at Food For Thought the day Olivia’s paper mache Forsty the Snaowman was opened.Photo: Olivia Campos

Dear Editor, Toledo Streets newspaper is a gem. The current issue has lots of great articles,

from local news to international news, poetry and thoughtful commentary, and I read it from cover to cover. I’d like to comment on the article about the Bill Gates megafoundation (Issue 25, an article republished from a sister paper in France). I appreciate the concern about its governance and methods, its business approach. But I did see a good side when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) in Ukraine. The Gates foundation has an initiative called Bibliomist to computerize 1000 libraries in Ukraine. It has similar initiatives in other former Soviet republics that are now struggling to find their own way to self-government. The purpose of the Bibliomist project is to empower local communities with little access to the internet by computerizing local libraries, opening up a whole new world of knowledge and information that is often controlled by governments from the top down. It’s a good goal that starts from the bottom up. This is the positive aspect of “the Gates way.” PCVs in other former Soviet republics and in Africa have mentioned similar grassroots projects—in the areas of technology, social entrepreneurship,

health and HIV/AIDS education and prevention—that support change from the bottom up. The Starobelsk public library in far-eastern Ukraine near the Russian border, a Russian-speaking village of about 20,000, applied for and received its first computers and wifi access through this initiative. It was a complicated process; it took three years, but the Starobelsk Public Library now has computers and is serving as a community resource. When you computerize a small library in Ukraine, you empower a whole community. If a megafoundation like the Gates foundation stays in touch with the villages, helps support change from the bottom up, like Toledo Streets, and helps ensure that money gets where it does the most good (which is usually not the case), then good things can happen. There is hope. My only wish is that the Gates foundation might do more to eliminate poverty in America by helping support grassroots projects like Toledo Streets and its powerful mission.

Francine (Fran) Curro Cary, PhD, Returned Peace Corps Volunteer

(RPCV), Ukraine 2009-2011Sylvania, OH

P.S.—Here’s a link to a blog I did on the Bibliomist project in Starobelsk: http://francurrocaryblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-library-computerized-community.html

Hello, my name is Olivia. First, I would like to thank God for the opportunity to be able

to speak to the community of Toledo, Ohio. As I stand today, one nation under God. What I am about to say is a reality, and truth. I would like to share with you where I came from. My father served in the military for several years and he had a loving wife and five children awaiting his return. During this time, our family lived in Eagle Pass, Texas. This is where I was born after the return of my father. At that time the only job available to him was picking cotton, and he stated to my mother it was too hot to pick cotton. He decided to move the family up north. We settled in migrant camps around the Toledo area. We lived in Bowling Green, Pemberville, Gibsonburg, Oak Harbor, and Elmore before moving to Toledo. On my eighth birthday, I was told I was old enough to work in the field. We picked tomatoes, cucumbers, and we went to the orchards to pick apples, peaches, strawberries, and raspberries. As the seasons went by, our family grew to 16 and my father had a difficult time putting food on the table for the family. We moved to Toledo for more opportunities and better wages. We rented a home on Michigan Street. Coming from a very big family, I had to learn how to stand on my own two feet and make my own life. I moved to Indiana; this is where I started my family and raised them in a community where we felt safe. As I remember leaving Toledo, it would

bring back fond memories of the Polish Village, the Ohio Theater, and all the beautiful historic homes. The area was very clean, well-kept and peaceful. I came to a time when I was facing a great deal of hardship. It felt like a matter of life and death. Finding myself surrending to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I received salvation on Christmas Day 1985. In 1995, I returned to Toledo to be closer to my family. I purchased a home on Ontario Street. I was sad to see what had happened to Toledo. I could not believe all the negative things happening in my neighborhood. There was prostitution around the four corners of my children’s school. I felt like I had to do somethinig about it, so I went to the Board of Education and complained until something was done to eliminate the problem. As a parent, I did not feel it was safe for my children to be subjected to such corruption. There were gun shots ringing in the air around my house on a regular basis. A woman knocked on my door to tell me they had found a man’s dead body just a few doors away. A detective and a police officer were both pronounced dead. There were police officers on a chase through my back yard late one night/early morning, making an arrest. After all this, I lived as a prisoner in my own home, devastated with what was going on in the neighborhood. Gradually, things started to change, beginning with the schools and their dress codes. There was more stability in the grade schools. At the time, I was employed in a

Ontario Street

Olivia Campos

“Ontario” continued on page 6


Poetry

When I dieWhen I dieI already know what’s going to happen—things will go on like on any other day—others will die,but most will go on living—half the country will continue living below the poverty line,while the other half will continue distancing itself from the aforementioned.The internet, cable television, and talk radiowill continue growing at an alarming free rate quotecuz insurance is such a great thing(everybody should have it—all of it)& the reality is, given my circumstance,I’m gonna be so much better offwhen I die.

When I diePhizer will introducea new ‘miracle drug’ that could potentiallybring me back to lifethe only side effects being memory loss, blindness, and. . .well, my death.

When I diethere won’t be any ‘clips’ of me on the morning newsshowing highlights of my most memorable moments—no funny anecdotes by out of touch television personalities—(who did not know me)all too willing to place a stamp of approvalon my brilliant career

When I dieI want to be buried in a potter’s fieldw/ a cast of thousands& with everyone who thought that they did not matter

When I diea few folks will be surprisedthat I was not already dead—even more won’t care at all,but no one will be shocked.When I die, it will not be shocking. . .

When I dieI won’t be reminded anymoreof old men walking painfully to out ofdate destinations—or the heavily made up women—well past their prime,darting from non-descript doorways& waving at cars that no longer slow down. . .I will no longer be aware of the futilityof tryingof feelingof being. . .

cuz when I’m finally really goneI won’t feel anything at all& I simply won’t be.

When I dieI won’t care anymore about a millionhomeless people—or about the 750,000 people who have just lost their homes—

When I diedon’t R.M.A. cause I’ve made so many mistakesI just want to be forgotten— no, no indelible impression (I don’t want to be in any body’s memory) & besides. . . it is just not worth it.

When I die,just let me go— “I’m not scared of dying & I don’t really care if it’s peace you find in dying well then let the time then near. . .”

When I dieI promise not to complainI’ve had some good days & some hills to climb,but I’m not angry—& even though I’m a little bit scared,I’m okay with it

When I diethere won’t be a sermon at the rock,no long procession of cars in commemoration,no children crying,no, nothing out of the ordinaryonly a few will know that I really mattered& a single candlewill sparklecuz I have done the state some service

When I dieI will reveal nothingand in that nothingness. . .perhaps everything in my youth—I wanted to live forever— shine forever. . .I felt like I was ‘bulletproof ’(indestructible)now I am just tiredworn thin, and weary.now I know that I won’t live foreverthat I am not indestructible& that the light has gone out—

and when I dieI will be like everybody else—forgotten.

bonfiles...

bonfilesPhoto: Robin Charney


Ontariocontinued from page 4

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In Issue 24 of Toledo Streets, I wrote the poem “It’s the end of the world”. But it didn’t happen. Shit.

After the poem, I wrote a P.S. about going to St. V’s in handcuffs. Well, here’s the story behind that. On September 1, 2012, my only son Zac—who I love more than anything in the world—died of a heroin overdose. He was only 19 years old. On October 19, I was at Zac’s dad’s house, visiting his dogs. It was just the dogs and I there. Then I got the stupidest idea ever! I thought I was going to go through Zac’s stuff (Zac lived with his dad) and give away, put away, take home, or do whatever with his things. I knew his dad would not mind. As I started to sort through, it brought up memories which made me very sad. So I realized this was a dumb idea and decided to call a friend instead. I called two or three people and no one was available. So I did another stupid thing. I called 9-1-1 and asked them for the suicide prevention phone number from the landline phone. All I wanted was someone to talk to. I never told anyone I was going to kill myself, and I wasn’t planning on it. I told them maybe I could find the number in the phone book and please don’t send a unit. Sure enough, they did any way. Two officers came in a paddy wagon to the house. They were

nice enough, though. One said, “Could you put the dogs away, and could we come in and talk?” I thought, Oh, good, I can now talk to somebody. So I put the dogs in the dog pen outside and let the police in. I told them about my son, and that I did not want to kill myself. I told them I just wanted the world to end so my son could come back and battle Satan and win and be alive again (like in my poem). Well, they thought I was a danger to myself and told me I had to go to Rescue Crisis or a hospital. I picked St. V’s. They put me in handcuffs behind my back and took me to St. V’s. The police made a report at the hospital desk and even walked back with me and hospital staff into the Emergency Room part with all the other patients, then left. Well, if you get a police escort into the ER there is no waiting. In the ER among the other patients were two young women who were heroin addicts going through withdrawals and vomitting. One was swearing at someone on the phone; I think she may have been a prostitute, and her son was with her mom. The one in the bed next to me told me her boyfriend told her to admit herself. She had been in the ER about seven hours waiting to go somewhere, I don’t remember where. She was mad at

My trip to St. V’s in handcuffs

Linda K.

“Handcuffs” continued on page 10

small restaurant named El Coyote. I was worried about where my children were going to be attending school. Then a wonderful couple named Jim and Nancy Morrsie came into the restaurant. They were active members of Lewis Avenue Baptist Church, where Nancy served as a school teacher. I enrolled two of my sons there in 2002 and became a member of this good fundamental church. Jim and Nancy have been really good friends of my family since then and they also have helped me with transportation to and from bible study and church service. I really want to express my gratitude and thank them both for being there at my doorstep. During all this, I was a single mother of three young teen boys, and our home needed repairs. It was then I met Shawn Kellerbauer, a man I could really trust, and I asked him for the help we needed. I also shared my feelings of despair about the neighborhood, and in one of our short conversations, I told Shawn I needed to do something to make my life different. It was then he invited me to a weekend gathering outside the main library downtown, just to hang out. But it became so much more to me. My heart went out to all the homeless. I could relate to all these people—I knew what it was to be cold, hungry and homeless. And at the gathering, I met LifeLine Toledo and a man of great faith and his big blue bus: Pastor Steve North had a conviction of community and love and also medical care outside the main library, along with fellowship friends like Michelle Davis, Kevin Olmstead, Lisa Craig, and the representatives of Toledo Streets, Amanda Moore and Christy Grob. And I was able to share one of my many talents—my own homemade paper mache 4 foot Frosty

the Snowman pinata on New Year’s Day 2010. With migrant workers and their families (also a part of LifeLine’s ministry), and the homeless, and all these new friends made me feel free from being a prisoner in my own home. They gave me the motivation to keep going on to something big and positive with my life. And moving on throughout the year at the end of October, Tent City and a man of great wisdom: Ken Leslie, who really knows what he is doing with the community. And this community of love, this is one big thing happening in the heart of Toledo, outside of the courts. As I was walking around in one of the tents during Tent City, I saw a slogan that said “1 Matters”. Whoever wrote this slogan knew what they were saying, and I received it immediately, and I stand this day on “1 Matters”. And because I matter, I want to say to the Toledo community that it begins at home, with the mother and father and what we teach our children. And everyone that has a position of authority in our community to please make it a better, safer place for the next generation that is to come. I would like to thank the city for the effort in cleaning up our neighborhoods of the drugs and prostitution. I am also pleased with and thankful for the Board of Education in making a big difference for our children’s safety and their schools’ improvement. And also for the installation of the security cameras; I now feel much safer in my own home. Once again, I would like to thank Mr. Shawn Kellerbauer and Pastor Steve North for helping me regain my independence and for the repairs they provided for my home.


or something had changed drastically. We were told it was weight training, which was part of it. The rest was steroids, and the brave new world of Enhanced Performance. We got the Bonds/McGwire/ Sosa 60 plus home run years. We saw Barry Bonds balloon like the Incredible Hulk, prevaricate like George W. Bush, and “break” Hank Aaron’s lifetime homer mark. It was obscene. A man who helped break baseball color lines, and took abuse for it, was eclipsed by a cheater who didn’t have the social conscience of a donkey. The baseball establishment pimped out the home run record and ratings went up. We got McGwire instead of Maris, Bonds instead of Babe Ruth. Talking heads on ESPN suggested Roger Clemens was the greatest pitcher of all-time. Fifty home run seasons became routine. I got a headache. Strategy changed. Tony La Russa spearheaded the spiral into three and a half hour games, and phony statistics put up by and incredible hulks. LA Russa perfected the use of four pitchers to face four hitters in the late innings. Everything got specialized. Dennis Eckersley became a one inning relief pitching machine. The complete game became a dinosaur, left back there somewhere on the shining fields of games long ago. Now hitters have longer at-bats working the count to get the starting pitcher out early, to get to mediocre middle relievers. These strategies work, they’re here, they’re not going anywhere. I’m not saying they should. This is winning baseball post 1987. I just don’t want to watch it. Sports can be over-coached and make money, look at college basketball. The bottom line is the bottom line. La Russa managed Canseco and McGwire when they pioneered steroid bodies and gaudy numbers at

Oakland. He managed McGwire in St. Louis when McGwire “chased” Maris. La Russa enabled. He’ll probably end up in the Hall of Fame. He helped make money for everybody. Today you don’t have to watch whole games. You don’t have to read newspaper accounts, which are going the way of the dinosaur and the complete game. We have replays and commentary and nonstop radio blather. It’s not necessary to follow anything in depth. It’s not necessary to know anything in depth - look at the Republican Party. Our world has gotten as broad as the information super highway and deep as a light beam. It operates on emotion, usually anger, and opinion, usually uninformed. I love baseball. I mourn during the winter months. Knowing the Red Sox are playing tonight gives me a

feeling of security like the heart beat in the womb. I guess I grieve the loss of that womb. The loss of a game that belonged to those who had opinions based on what they observed and thought and researched and felt. That game was ours. Everything changes. Everything is for sale. I prefer the court of memory to the raw edge of the present. Nothing beats a Red Sox win to make a day complete. I savor a win. I feel good. I listen to the talk shows. I just won’t have watched the whole damn game.

Luke Salisbury is the author of the books The Answer Is Baseball, The Cleveland Indian, and Hollywood and Sunset.

www.street-papers.org / Spare Change News - Boston, MA

Once upon a time I could watch an entire baseball game. I looked forward to a whole game,

especially if the pitching match-up was good: Tom Seaver versus Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax or Juan Marichal against anybody, Luis Tiant vs. Jim Palmer, Pedro Martinez warming up, or any Red Sox game. Now it’s different. Everything’s different in the twenty-four seven digital age and it’s not all bad. Movies and sports on a big HD screen in my own house is an unparalleled luxury. I have spent more disposable time watching sports (God help me, I watch the NFL draft) than doing anything besides reading. But it’s changed. In this over-heated, talk radio, sports information super highway contemporary WEEI world, I don’t watch nine innings of baseball. The dreamy, easy psychic interaction with baseball, with memory and knowledge of the game, isn’t there. Something is lost if you don’t watch a whole game. If you do, you will see something you haven’t seen before. There will be some anomaly, a statistical blip, a delightful irregularity that puts you in the deep stream of baseball that goes through your childhood and your father’s childhood, back to the childhood of the game itself which stretches back to before the Civil War. But I don’t watch whole games. That form of rooting, that dreaming pastime, that mixture of meditation, anticipation and love, and isn’t there. Baseball stopped being personal. How did this happen? Besides the wall-to-wall TV coverage, instant analysis everywhere, and new computer generated statistics that put the game under a numerical microscope that leaves me as cold as road kill along Route 2, the game on the field changed. The bodies and the strategy expanded in the late1980s. Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire ushered in a new chemical world that broke continuity with baseball’s past. McGwire hit 49 home runs as a rookie. That broke the existing record by 11. Either this was the all-time great eclipse of a significant record,

Love the game, can’t watch nine innings

Luke Salisbury, Spare Change News

Luke SalisburyPhoto courtesy Luke Salisbury

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For Garth Turpening’s family in the 1920’s, baseball was more than a pastime—it was how the family

survived. After Garth’s father passed away in 1923, the family relied on the activity at Swayne Field, the home of the Toledo Mud Hens then, for income. Garth’s mother, Goldie, rented out rooms during the season to several ballplayers as well as the Hens’ manager, Casey Stengel and his wife Edna. Since the Turpenings lived off of Detroit Avenue, just a homerun hit away from the field, the location couldn’t be beat for the team. And when there was a home game, Garth and Goldie could park up to 140 cars at 50 cents each in their yard, and that extra $70 went a long way. The connection between the family and the Mud Hens stretched beyond income. Damage to the Turpening’s house was common—Garth remembered a ball crashing through the window at dinnertime once—and the baseball club’s secretary, Jimmy McGraw had told Goldie to simply send in the repair

bills; inspections weren’t necessary. Although Garth’s youth was shaped by baseball—he could see the field from his bedroom window—perhaps the most defining moment, one that would become family legend, was in the September of the boy’s 14th year. That was when the Yankees came to town to play an exhibition game with the Hens. Just the year before in 1927, the Yankees’ Babe Ruth had set his record 60 home runs for the season, a record that would stand for over seven decades until 2001 when Barry Bonds broke it with his 73 homers. Also on the Yankees’ roster was the less tempestuous first baseman Lou Gehrig, whose own record of grand slams wasn’t tied until last year by Alex Rodriguez. Garth remembered seeing Gehrig and Ruth arriving by taxi cab for the game. Perhaps he thought at the time that was as close to these legends as he was going to get. He was wrong. On September 13, 1928,

education & recreational development of local youth. For more information, please contact Cheri Pastula at 419-725-4367 or [email protected].

What is one program/project you’re currently funding?We’ve just completed our 2013 grant funding cycle. We were able to donate close to $25,000 to six local organizations. This will provide equipment, uniforms and opportunities for thousands of local youth in our area. There are so many worthwhile organizations who do exceptional work and the Mud Hens are thrilled to support local children in their efforts to stay active and healthy.

What’s the most rewarding aspect of supporting Toledo’s service efforts?The Toledo community has been so supportive to the Mud Hens over the years. It’s truly our please to give back to a community that has been so supportive of us. Every day, we hear about different organizations who are truly making an impact in the community and the Toledo Mud Hens are proud to support many of these efforts.

An integral part of Northwest Ohio’s landscape of generosity are the various local companies and

organizations, especially those who continually donate profits to various community projects and programs. Our hometown AAA team, the Toledo Mud Hens, are no exception and have a foundation set up just for that purpose. We’ve asked Cheri Pastula, Community Relations Manager for both the Hens and the Walleye to give a little more detail on the Helping Hens foundation.

What is the history of your company’s charitable giving/foundation?Helping Hens, the official charitable fund of the Toledo Mud Hens, was established in 2005 and is administered through the Toledo Community Foundation. Helping Hens provides game tickets and meals to local underserved youth as well as financial support to area non-profits focusing on youth recreation and wellness. Every year, Helping Hens awards thousands of grant dollars to local organizations committed to the

Amanda Faith Moore

The Babe, a ball & a boy: A Toledo family’s legacy

Heart at Work:The Mud Hens

Our thanks to these advertisers and others in the paper for their

support! This is one way the Toledo Streets program is funded.Discover what these advertisers

did: An ad in Toledo Streets is VERY affordable!

Call 419.825.6397 for rates!

The 2012 Helping Hens Check Presentation Photo courtesy of The Toledo Mud Hens Baseball Club

Lee Turpening (one of Garth’s sons) and his son Dane with the family’s treasured baseball and other memorabilia.Photo: Amanda Faith Moore

“Turpening” continued on page 10 ts


PART IIt was April 15, 2013… The day that players all over Major League Baseball were to wear Number Forty-Two. #42… The only number retired throughout all the big leagues. #42… Jackie Robinson’s number. For those who don’t already know, Jack Roosevelt Robinson was born in Cairo, Georgia, in 1919, to a family of sharecroppers. Jack Roosevelt Robinson became a very remarkable man. While in college at the University of California, Los Angeles (remember, he was the son of a sharecropper, and the grandson of former slaves), Jack Robinson became the first player to win varsity letters in four sports: baseball, basketball, football, and track. So after his brilliant university career was cut short prematurely because of money problems, Jack Robinson chose to enlist in the U.S. Army at the height of World War Two. In spite of being court-martialed for his objections to racial discrimination in the army, Jack Robinson rose to the rank of Second Lieutenant—an officer—and was honorably discharged. In 1945, Robinson played one season with the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Baseball League. This league was the segregated opposite of the whites-only teams of big league baseball. In 1947, “Jackie” Robinson donned a Brooklyn Dodgers uniform (a whites-only team in the whites-only league), and Jackie Robinson then commenced to

shatter baseball’s more than fifty year old racial barrier. It was on April 15, 1947, that Jackie Robinson breached the color line that had existed in baseball for six decades. Former University of Michigan baseball coach Branch Rickey had signed Jackie Robinson with Rickey’s Brooklyn team, making Robinson the first black player of the modern era. (It was also Rickey who later drafted Roberto Clemente, who became the first Afro-Hispanic baseball superstar.) In 1949, Jackie Robinson was selected as the National Leagues’ Player of the Year, and also won the batting title with a .342 average. In subsequent years, there would no longer be two major leagues; one all-white, and one all-black. Jackie Robinson faced vitriolic opposition, death threats, and seemingly endless impediments, but Jackie Robinson eventually

The nature of fame is truly fascinating. In all walks of life, true fame is built day by day, slowly over time. In

sports, notoriety can come from one amazing game or one amazing season, but fame—true fame—can only come from game after game, month after month, and season after season. For athletes, the attainment of fame occurs long after they hang up the cleats, put down the bat, or otherwise drift off into the sunset. In baseball, when people think of the greatest pitchers who ever stared down a batter from atop the mound, they might list off Christy Mathewson, Walter Johnson, Sandy Koufax, Bob Feller, Bob Gibson, Cy Young, and so on. These are the names that need little explanation to most baseball fans. Come to think of it, even people with only a passing knowledge of baseball has heard of most, if not all, of these greats. For these men, their careers were long and distinguished such that there was never any doubt when they retired that they have accomplished what few others had. But that is not the case of all athletes, many of whom succumb to a career shortening injury that leaves them on the cusp of true greatness. Some face tragedy on the way and only accomplish a fraction of what they might have done should the fates had been on their side. Such was the case with Addie Joss…one of the greatest pitchers you might never have heard about. Addie Joss, as a pitcher, dominated an era like few others have ever done. Sadly, his era ended too soon, passing away two days after turning 31 in Toledo, Ohio. Joss pitched for the Cleveland Indians (then called the Naps

for their manager Napoleon LaJoie) from 1902 through 1910. In those 9 years, he won 160 games, lost only 97, won 20 games four consecutive years and had a lifetime ERA of 1.89. On October 2, 1908, he tossed a perfect game vs. the Chicago White Sox, winning 1-0. Two and a half years later, Joss would die because of tubercular meningitis —an illness which, like his fastball, no one saw coming. The Chicago Daily Tribune even reported that Joss’ mother, who was dispatched from her home in Wisconsin upon hearing of his illness, “…fainted upon noticing the wreath on the door.” Like all tragedies, he was taken too soon.

William James O’FaheyCorey Seeman

The “first” all-star game: The Addie Joss benefit game of 1911

Before Jackie, there was Fleet

Moses Fleetwood Walker, circa 1884From the National Baseball Hall of Fame, public

domain image

Addie Joss “the Human Hairpin” baseball card from 1911 CREDIT: “Addie Joss, Pitcher, Cleveland Naps, American League, 1911.” 1911. Baseball Cards,

1887-1914, Library of Congress

“Walker” continued on page 13“All-star” continued on page 12


Handcuffs continued from page 6

Turpening continued from page 8

her boyfriend because he said she should admit herself. I told her that my son was dead because of heroin. I was crying because I missed my son. My crying bothered her; she had to take a walk to the bathroom to get away from it. I told her that when you do drugs, it affects your whole family. And about her friend, the other ER patient, that it hurts her son, too. I said that her boyfriend did her a favor! I talked to the doctor and a nice social worker. I told the social worker about my son, and that I did not want to kill myself—I just wanted the world to end; not really, just sort of. She said, “It sounds like you just want your son back.” And I was like, “Yeah.” She gave me some phone numbers of people to go to for help, and one of them was the number I wanted in the first place. One number was for Al-Anon. I’ve already been to Al-Anon, and he died anyway. I didn’t tell her this, but if one more person tells me to go to Al-Anon, I’m about ready to tell them where they can go. I convinced her I wasn’t going to kill myself and I was to be released. The woman in the next bed was upset because I was going home and she was not. The social worker said that I was not an addict. The hospital paid for a cab to take me back to Zac’s dad’s, and when I got there, his dad was home. I then spent the night at my parents’ house. I was at the hospital about two hours. The ER bill came to $1,410.08. The doctor bill (who I talked to for about five or ten minutes) came to $345.00. The ER bill was covered by the low-income plan. That in effect lowered the doctor bill by $138.00. I have to pay the balance of that one. By buying this newspaper (if from me), you will help me pay that bill. If you did buy from me, thank you for helping and for reading this. ts ts

two balls bounced off of Detroit Avenue. One of them then landed in the Turpening’s front yard. Goldie handed her son a pen and told him to go find out who had hit the ball. It turned out to be Babe Ruth. Stengel let the boy in after the game, and Garth met both Ruth and Gehrig face-to-face, getting signatures from both legends, as well as the others on the famed “Murderers Row” Yankees batting lineup: Bob Meusel, Tony Lazzeri, Mark Koenig, and Pat Collins. It was the start of a passion for Garth, and the ball would come to hold two more legendary signatures before Garth passed away in 2010: Hank Aaron and Mickey Mantle. When Garth passed at the age of 96, he left a large circle of family and friends who remembered his stories and his love of Toledo. One of his sons, Lee, recalled growing up hearing about the baseball which, at one time, had been sought by the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, for its collection. Lee and his siblings had doubted their father’s stories until they grew older and Garth actually brought his treasure out of safe storage. It wasn’t until Garth’s children began doing some research that all the pieces came to light and they realized their father actually owned a unique part of baseball history. A history that, unfortunately, is fading. When Goldie handed her son a pen in 1928, it was a Toledo-made Conklin fountain pen that contained ink derived from berries, fairly common for inexpensive pens of that era. Dye-based inks such as the one in the pen the Babe used to sign Garth’s baseball are not indelible and Ruth’s scrawl, along with Gehrig’s and most of the others from that Thursday afternoon in 1928 are barely discernible. Much more prominent are Aaron’s and Mantle’s signatures. The ball itself is also showing its age. It’s an official American League baseball, provided by the Yankees the for the game, and beyond the yellowing of its leather hide, it’s most telltale sign that it’s an antique is its black and red stitching. All of this means the ball is not the priceless antique it might

have been, at least not in terms of dollars. Though the Baseball Hall of Fame once expressed interest, it would be more of a donation than a retirement-providing sale. But money and history aside, the Turpening family is not likely to give up such a link to their beloved patriarch. The ball is symbolic of a man full of stories, the one about the Babe’s home run being only part of a multitude Garth like to tell about his childhood in Toledo. His memory, even up until his death, was sharp. People, places and events were recalled with amazing clarity. Among the collection of newspaper clippings, copies of old newsletters and notes about the baseball—enough to fill two old briefcases, and then some—is a very detailed poster-sized drawing Garth had made in his later years of his childhood neighborhood, the one where Ruth’s homerun gave him the story of a lifetime. Garth’s grandson Dane, an artist-blacksmith, now owns his grandfather’s old house on Ida Drive, the one in which Garth passed away. Dane’s forge is in his garage, where he heats, molds, and hammers his art for a variety of customers and friends. Dane’s eyes shine when he talks about his grandfather, and it is with no meager measure of care and respect that he puts on latex gloves before he gets out his family’s treasure and turns it around and around, pointing out all the different signatures. All of us that gathered around his dining room table hold our breath as we lean in to see the names of men we’ve heard about all our lives, in their own handwriting. Dane’s father and Garth’s son, Lee, is there. He is full of stories, too; stories about his father and the ball—

how they came to research his dad’s tale of the ball, what they found, how his dad and the ball have gained some local noteriety, and even a bit of fame on NPR when Garth did a recorded interview a few years ago. One wonders how much Lee and Dane take after Garth, a noted people-person. Garth was also noted for his service through his church, and in that Dane definitely takes after his grandfather. His passion for taking his blacksmithing skills to the inner city to share with youth already has prompted him to bring his portable forge downtown to Tent City last year, as well as occasionally bringing it on Saturdays to Food For Thought, at the corner of Adams and Michigan from 10 to 11 a.m., where the weekly food distribution gets a kick out of Dane and his friends hammering away, creating crowd requests like simple hearts. Later, we watch a video of Garth talking about his life. It’s the first time Dane has seen it, and he has a hard time staying in the room. Sure enough, the ball is eventually mentioned, and we get to hear the story from the man himself. And somewhere in the voice of a 90-something man, we hear a 14 year old boy who’s just gotten a homerun ball signed by Babe Ruth and other legends of the game, because the magic of that moment never died for Garth Turpening. Which is what makes Garth Turpening a legend himself and why, though the signatures on his beloved baseball might fade, the game will continue to serve his family and keep a memory alive, and the love he passed on to his family will never fade.

Babe Ruth’s faded signature on a homerun ball recovered from a 1928 exhibition game with the Toledo Mud Hens.Photo: Amanda Faith Moore


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It was just about three weeks ago, as I write this, that Major League Baseball collectively remembered one of the greatest and most defining

moments of its history: the breaking of the color barrier by Jackie Robinson, Branch Rickey and the Brooklyn Dodgers. Over the course of two days (to make a participation opportunity for teams whose schedules had them idle on the exact date) every player on every team wore the number 42 to commemorate Robinson’s courage, Rickey’s resolve and the tectonic shift that took place in our national pastime on April 15, 1947. That event reverberated through more than just the ballparks in which Robinson played; it had a profound impact on the American cultural landscape. It was an impact that was desperately needed. The truth is that blacks had played in professional baseball in its earliest days through the 1870’s and 1880’s, but the segregating fences torn down by the trauma of the American Civil War, Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and the blood, sweat and tears efforts of many abolitionists were rebuilt. For about six decades, hard-won victories were relegated to mere symbolism as practical socio-economic and social thinly-veiled subservience were reinstated as cultural norms. And we learned to agree to look away from the ugliness again. This has happened often in human history, and it has been to the detriment of us all. For me, it’s particularly heartbreaking to think of the ways that people of faith have participated in the marginalization of whole groups of human beings. Oh, and, by the way, we should be clear that keeping quiet about injustice is, itself, participation in that

injustice. Whenever I have kept silent about such issues, I have been a participant in the violence. So have you. I don’t think there’s much help in browbeating people into doing the right thing. I do think, however, that we can encourage and inspire one another to take a higher road or to speak up and out about issues like racism that keep on raising their ugly heads among us. After all, we seem to forget. We seem to be willing to accept the same injustices that we repeatedly have a chance relegate to the scrap heap of history, as long as they take a different enough form to justify our indifference and allow us to pretend we don’t recognize them. Let’s face it: we need reminders like Jackie Robinson Day in Major League Baseball. I know I need reminders because I had one of the most profoundly formative experiences of my life regarding this particular issue in 1963. I wrote a poem about this incident a few years ago:

DEWAYNE’S FENCEPontiac, MI 1963

We were just grade school boysDoing what grade school boys do:Playing baseball in the back yardAnd imagining I was Al Kaline. I don’t remember who you were,Or who Jim pretended to be…Actually, come to think of it,We all wanted to be Al Kaline.

I was the oldest and biggest, andRegularly, I’d get ahold of oneAnd most literally “go yard,” on you,While Jim went over or around

The fence that divided our small yardFrom the next-door neighbor’s,Endlessly running the path toRetrieve both the ball and our dreams.

It turned out, that fence segregatedMore than just the families’ spaces.Jim, exhausted and frustrated, Asked to swap places for awhile, So you could be the rabbitAnd hunt all the homers down,While Don Spaula cheered our Real game and imagined heroics.

I didn’t know. Honest, I didn’t.When you ran after the first homerJust like Jim had been doing,I didn’t know Mr. Spaula would be mad.I didn’t understand his words:“You are not welcome in this yard,”But by the look on your faceI could tell you were not confused.

As if it were yesterday, I can seeThe hurt, the disappointment,The humiliation and the knowingCasting a shadow on your dark face.The innocence of boyhood playRavaged by a devastating reality;The contentedness of friendshipShattered by such cruel intent.

“I didn’t know” wasn’t an excuse thenAnd it can’t be claimed now.Your memory etched in mineHas refused to let me resignTo the cultural status quo. I wish I could tell you I remember,And how your pain shaped my life.As if that would erase the wrong.

Words are cheap substitutes for action.The difference that counts is to live it.My life has been too often silentAbout those wearing shoes like yours.That darkness is on my soul.I must—we must—do more than Avoid the same prejudices.We must tear down the fence.

This encounter thundered through my 7 year old soul then, and has thundered over and over again throughout my life. Yet, somehow, I have managed to be silent more often than I would like on the subject. Not very often when faced with some blatant or overt situation, but in more subtle ways. I have likely been more silent than I could be when the conflict is somewhat removed from the boundaries of my own life and relationships. Advocacy is speaking…out. It’s saying something when everyone else is silent. It’s shattering the status quo of acceptance of injustice and marginalization. It’s standing up when everyone around is yelling we should sit down and shut up. As great a gesture as it is, advocacy is more than wearing #42 on my back; it’s living as if #42 is tattooed on my heart. It’s tearing down the fence and seeing to it that the fence will never be rebuilt on my watch—on our watch. Play ball! Now batting, number 42, Jackie Robinson…

Steve North is an associate pastor at New Harvest Church, and also runs LifeLine Toledo, with a big blue bus for medical missions, poetry, and community dinners. He can be reached at [email protected].

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Living Faith: Tearing down the fencesPastor Steve North, LifeLine Toledo

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All-starcontinued from page 9

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Addie Joss, Cleveland, AL (baseball)Photo: George Grantham Bain Collection (Library of Congress)

The shock of his passing was felt not only in his adopted home city of Toledo, where he had played two seasons of minor league baseball, or in Cleveland, where he starred for the Naps, but all across baseball. Evangelist Billy Sunday, who was in Toledo at the time of Addie’s death, provided the eulogy at his funeral. Of the things Sunday said that day, one thing rings so true:

“No more will the umpire walk in front of the grandstand and cry out: ‘the pitcher for Cleveland will be Joss.’ No more will the opposing club turn pale, for in the past they realized this announcement was the harbinger of almost sure defeat. The name of Joss has always brought terror to the opposing nine.”

Joss is buried at Woodlawn Cemetery in Toledo. It is so appropriate that he lay to rest in his adopted home town where his baseball career began and where he served as Sunday sports editor for the Toledo News Bee. Joss had earned a very respectable $5,000 a year in 1910. However, it was very clear to Addie’s team mates that his family needed some assistance to deal with the giant hole created with Joss’ death. Shortly after his passing, the Cleveland management and his former team mates decided to do something special for the family. The idea was that the Indians would find an open date on their schedule and play a benefit game against all-stars from other teams to raise money that would go to the family. While benefit games were not uncommon, this was the first one setup to include an all-star game and where the proceeds went to one family. The date settled up was July 24, 1911 and what a day it was. The all-star team featured eventual hall of famers Tris Speaker, Eddie Collins, Ty Cobb, Home Run Baker, Walter Johnson, and others. The game itself was not spectacular, but the outcome certainly was. The people of the City of Cleveland purchased over 15,000 tickets and raised nearly $13,000 (with no money taken out for expenses) for the Joss Family (Lillian and their two children, Ruth and Norman). In September 1911, Baseball Magazine

wrote in their editorials powerful words about the event that placed it in its proper perspective:

The benefit day at the Cleveland ball park in grateful memory of Addie Joss was a touching and beautiful instance of the human side of the national game. The Cleveland owners freely gave the use of their park, the Cleveland team offered their services gladly, while scores of star players throughout the league vied with one another in their efforts to secure a place on the opposing team and thus show some slight token of their esteem for a fellow player who had passed away. In short all the varied interests of organized baseball united in the noble purpose of giving such assistance as lay in their power to the bereaved family of a man who was universally beloved.

This tremendous game not only served as a precursor to Baseball’s All-star game (which started in 1933 as an annual mid-season classic), but established a role for baseball to play in supporting those who had given their life to the sport. Over the years, many events would kindle the fires of humanity that swept through Cleveland in the summer of 1911. But in thinking of the Joss benefit game, it is clear that the management and players of the Cleveland Naps (as well as those who would also contribute) were responding to a higher calling. This generous gift

to the Joss family would enable fans in Cleveland to say thank you one last time. On January 14, 1913, the Cleveland Press would write that the Joss Children are “Fine and Happy”, though Norman, who was in the 5th grade at the time, was playing football, not baseball like his famous father. In 1978, the Directors of the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum waived the rules that governed election by the Committee on Baseball Veterans that restricted consideration to those who played 10 seasons. The Hall Directors allowed Joss to be considered despite the fact that he played only nine seasons. On August 7, 1978, Joss’ cousin Dr. William Swartz would thank the Hall’s Veteran’s Committee for “…their favorable consideration of Addie’s credentials.” And while Addie Joss left this world too soon, this act placed a capstone on his remarkable career. Like all that preceded him in Cooperstown and those who came after, it was clear that his fame was built one game at a time—enabling us to step back and be amazed at not only his accomplishments on the field, but his place in the hearts of those he played with, and against.

Corey Seeman is the Director of the Kresge Business Administration Library at the University of Michigan and has written on baseball history over the years. From 1996 to 1998, Corey worked for the National Baseball Library at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York. He can be reached at [email protected]


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Walkercontinued from page 9

1882 University of Michigan baseball team.Photo: From Bentley Historical Library, public domain image

Jackie Robinson swinging a bat in Dodgers uniform, 1954.Photo: Bob Sandberg, 1954. Published in LOOK, v. 19, no. 4, 1955 Feb. 22. Library of Congress

shattered the color barrier: as a player, and as a man.

PART IIJackie Robinson was the first black player of the modern era, but it was another University of Michigan alumnus who had been the first black player in the entire history of professional baseball! This was Moses Fleetwood Walker, who on May 1, 1884, played his first game as catcher for the Toledo Blue Stockings, a professional club in the Major League American Association. The new movie 42, based on the life of Jackie Robinson, opened on April 12th, and all of Major League Baseball honored Robinson on April 15th with “Jackie Robinson Day” where all the players in the big leagues wore Robinson’s number, forty-two. But sometimes forgotten in the celebrations of Jackie Robinson’s triumph over the modern baseball color line are the death threats, fistfights, and eventual blacklisting that Moses Walker had to endure. Every sportswriter in every city that Moses Walker’s Toledo team visited would note that Moses Walker was a “colored” man. Walker was said to be a “plucky catcher, a hardhitter, and a daring and successful baserunner.” At a time when most catchers had begun to use padded mitts, Walker caught fastball pitches with his bare hands. Of the many racial slurs and physical attacks that Moses Walker faced was the letter received by the Toledo Baseball Club before their game with the professional baseball club of Richmond, Virginia;

“We the undersigned do hereby warn you not to put up Walker, the Negro catcher, the evenings you play in Richmond, as we could mention [the names of ] 75 determined men who have sworn to mob Walker if he comes on the ground. We only write this to prevent much bloodshed, as you alone can prevent…”

After the 1889 season,

Major League Baseball began an unwritten rule barring African-American players until 1947, when Jackie Robinson exploded the color barrier.

PART IIIMoses Fleetwood Walker was born on October, 7, 1857, in Mt. Pleasant, Ohio. His parents were both of mixed race. Mt. Pleasant, located in Eastern Ohio, had a large Quaker population, which, in the pre-Civil War era, often suggested anti-slavery leanings. A hard night’s walk from the slave markets of Wheeling, West Virginia, the town served as an important stop on the Underground Railroad. When Moses Walker, who was called “Fleet” by his family and friends, was yet a child, his family moved to Steubenville, Ohio, and Fleet’s father began practicing medicine. In 1878, Fleet enrolled in Oberlin College, a school nationally recognized for its admissions policies regarding women and blacks. Fleet played baseball at Oberlin and performed so well that he was recruited to play baseball at the University of Michigan, where he studied law. Moses Fleetwood Walker played for several semi-pro teams, and faced numerous controversies because of his race, before the historic day on May 1, 1884, when he became the first black player to ever suit up for a Major League Baseball club… And yes, that baseball club was the Toledo Blue Stockings… the forerunners of today’s Toledo Mud Hens. Fleet faced mistreatment, sometimes even from his own pitcher, Tony Mullane. Mullane revealed years later that although

Fleet Walker was the best catcher Mullane ever worked with, he disliked taking signals from his black catcher. Mullane’s lack of communication with his catcher meant Fleet Walker would often not know the speed, location, or spin of Mullane’s Major League pitches. The result was numerous injuries to Fleet, including a broken rib. On many days, Fleet hurt too much to play, and on others he could only take an outfield position. At the end of the tumultuous ’84 campaign, it was clear that Toledo’s best baseball players were Second Baseman Sam Barkley, Pitcher Tony Mullane, and Moses Fleetwood Walker. Nevertheless, at the end of the year, Walker was released by Toledo, and accepted a job in the Post Office. Unbeknownst to Fleet, the powers that be in the American Association had agreed with their Nation League counterparts to observe the NL’s unwritten rule banning black from its rosters. Where Fleet Walker would have gone as a ballplayer will never be known, but where he went as a blacklisted ballplayer and tortured soul we do know… After African-Americans were banned from professional baseball, Moses Walker (and his brother, Welday) returned to Steubenville and started a newspaper called The Equator. Walker also owned a theatre and an opera house in these later years, and battled alcoholism. He was acquitted of murder after stabbing an attacker in self-defense. Most poignantly, Walker called for black emigration to Africa in these later years, as the only alternative to racial prejudice.

EPILOGUEMoses Fleetwood Walker and Jackie Robinson struggled against intense racial hatred and ingrained stereotypes in their bids to desegregate baseball… Their stories reflect some of the most shameful aspects of American history, but also the slow and steady progress of the American values of equal opportunity, fair play, and multiculturalism that make America the world’s cultural superpower and a model for future diversity in the world. It is important to remember these struggles and triumphs, when confronted with incidents such as the bombing murders at the Boston Marathon, which overshadowed this year’s Major League Baseball observance of “Jackie Robinson Day” on April 15th. In the lifetimes of Moses Fleetwood Walker and Jackie Robinson, there were many economic and social injustices, in American and the world, that might have provided an excuse for politically-motivated violence. Jackie Robinson said himself that “the right of every American to first-class citizenship is the most important issue of our time,” but Jackie Robinson did not bomb sporting events to achieve this objective, and Fleet Walker did not murder athletes and fans to achieve this objective… And that is another reason why April 15, “Jackie Robinson Day,” is a date to be forever remembered.

William James O’Fahey can be reached on Facebook as Amish Country Doctors, or at toledoshipyardmonster.com, amishcountrydoctors.com and toledomichigan.com.



HoboscopesMr. Mysterio

TAURUS | Let’s be vague. I’ll go first. Something is about to happen. I’m not sure that it’s going to happen to you, but I’m even less sure that it isn’t. If you can prepare for that something, than it must be yours to prepare for. What I’m hoping you can see here, Taurus, is that it isn’t through seeing that we truly understand, but if we can find our way through the fog that separates us from the truth, we’ll finally know the answer to the puzzle which could never be solved. Now there’s something you have to do, but it is often through knowing what not to do that we realize what cannot be undone. This is fun! Now you do me!

GEMINI | The mayfly is named for the time of year when it is most often seen flying around rivers and lakes in North America. In parts of Europe, the mayfly is called “efímeros” a name derived from the Greek word for “short-lived.” It’s true that most species of mayfly only fly for one day—some for only a few hours. And my tendency, Gemini, is to think that the short life of the mayfly is somehow tragic or insufficient. But you and I can’t know how long of a life is long enough. Perhaps some aged tortoise or ancient tree looks at your life and thinks “what a pity to live for less than 100 years.” Little do they know that you have learned the secret of that ephemeral insect: Pay attention. Make every moment matter. (Thanks to Neil Degrasse Tyson.)

CANCER | They say “you can’t go home again.” When I was a kid, I used to wonder what they meant by that. “Of course I can go home again, it’s right around the corner,” I would think, as I stood someplace right around the corner from my home. But as I got older, I began to understand. The problem isn’t the “going”. The problem is with “home” and with “you”. “You” are going to change and “home” is going to change and when those two things meet again, they won’t even recognize each other. And sometimes, Cancer, you’ll sit around all day missing the way it used to be and wishing you could go back. That’s OK. It’s a loss you’re allowed to mourn. But you can’t stay there (it’s not your home). You’ve got to find out who the new “you” is and what home looks like now.

LEO | Necessity is the mother of invention, so necessity would probably appreciate that you “invented” a Mother’s Day card using a paper towel that you found in the men’s room and a half a crayon that you had in your shirt

pocket for some reason. Mom’s are just proud like that, Leo. I’m sure she’ll think it’s great. But even better than the proud look on her face when you hand her your hastily-crafted nugget of tenderness is the feeling you’ll get when you realize that Mother’s Day isn’t this week at all. Maybe shelve the paper towel and crayon idea and see if you can’t “invent” something a little classier. You’ve got time.

VIRGO | Sometimes you just have to admit when you’re wrong. Like when you choose the line at the grocery store that you’re sure will move the fastest and then you realize the guy at the check-out is arguing with the manager about the price of frozen corn and he’s paying entirely in coupons. “Surely this can’t go on much longer,” you think as the shopper in line in front of you gives up and heads to the self-checkout. But it isn’t even close to over, Virgo. You know that guy is going to need at least three more price checks and will probably get in a fight with the cashier when he puts his eggplant in the same bag with his Frosted Flakes. I think it’s time to admit you made a mistake and find another line.

LIBRA | I see what you’re doing, Libra. You keep saying you’re too busy. You keep telling us that you don’t have time. The truth is that you have exactly the same amount of time as the rest of us. Years will contain 365 days of the 24 hour variety. The truth is you have exactly the same things on your “to do” list as all of humanity: Take care of yourself; connect with the people around you; notice your life. So when you say you’re too busy, what you really mean is that you haven’t yet figured out the simple essential truth of what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Get un-busy and start engaging with the important.

SCORPIO | Let me level with you, Scorpio. If I could collect everything that I know about what’s going to happen in the future and put all of that knowledge in, say, a thimble; and if I were to freeze that liquified thimble-drop of knowledge and lower it onto, say, an ant; and if that ant were to notice a chill as that tiny bit of frozen future-knowledge melted between her thorax and the joint of her second left leg; then she might, at first, be afraid that her new antiperspirant wasn’t working and that she never should have switched to the store-brand, but she would then smile and the drop would evaporate and be forgotten. The future is uncertain,

Scorpio. What’s the best thing in your life today? SAGITTARIUS | Are you gonna be in town on the 19th because my band is playing this show at The...Wait a second...Are you a Sagittarius? I knew it! I could tell that you’re a Sagittarius because I always run into you right here between Scorpio and Capricorn. So, I guess that answers my question about the 19th. There’s no way a Sagittarius would get caught at my show on the 19th this month. I mean, you’re going to need some extra sleep. You know, for the 20th.

CAPRICORN | You spend all your time trying to get back to that one summer when you were eight and your uncle gave you that broken down car and you got to play in it all day because it was just yours. You used to have so much fun pretending to drive and chase bad guys and bouncing around in the backseat until you fell asleep and woke up with the upholstery-print on your cheek. It’s easy to long for simpler times. It’s hard to want to wake up in the present. But the present is what you’ve got, Capricorn. The present is just as beautiful and full of wonder as any trip to your past could ever be. That old broken-down car was nothing special; it was you who made it amazing AQUARIUS | Why do they do it, Aquarius? Why do earthworms crawl up onto the sidewalk after a storm and then just wiggle there until the sun comes out and bakes them to a standstill? It’s such a poor life decision! Of course, you may also find it to be a familiar circumstance to the one you’re in right now. First came the rains and it was like you were drowning. You were just so grateful to be above the waterline and it seemed like you were finally getting

your footing on solid ground. Then up comes the sun and you’re struggling again. But you aren’t an earthworm, Aquarius. You don’t have to stay where you are. So, get a move on, before the sun dries you out.

PISCES | It’s dawned on me that you’re taking all of this too seriously, Pisces. Maybe you could give yourself the night off. Take tomorrow too. Tell them your ameteur astrologer told you you need a personal day. I’ll write you a note if you need it.

ARIES | What’s a Buddhist’s favorite kind of cheese? Nacho cheese, of course. Because like your house, your car, your spouse and your job, the cheese was never really yours to begin with. Like all cheese, this cheese is only a distraction and an attachment. I used to find this kind of detachment distressing, Aries. I thought that if I didn’t accept ownership for all those things in my life that I’ve acquired, I would never appreciate them. It turns out to be quite the opposite. Whenever I believe that my cheese is really mine, then I start to believe that I somehow deserve the cheese as a reward for my own goodness and that my continued goodness will allow me to keep them and acquire more. In fact, I am only truly grateful for all that I have when I realize that I cannot possibly deserve or control any of it. As a side note, some Buddhists also enjoy a good chèvre every now and then.

Mr. Mysterio is not a licensed astrologer, a classically-trained organist, or a very good dancer.

Hoboscopes appear courtesy of The Contributor street newspaper in Nashville, TN. ts

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Toledo Streets Issue 26